Featured Poems

If To Reflect A Few

by on May 28, 2017 :: 0 comments

That perfect moment when
The rays of the sun drip
Through the trees in a haze
And reflect on the lake
Where the water greets me

Rain is a lifetime away
From the room’s emptiness
Morning mist dries up when
The wind breathes life
Into the diminishing silence

My haunted memory
Picks at me every time
I try to follow the movements
Turning behind the dark corner
Hoping to escape the faint echo

The change in the season
Draws the unseen line when
Heat gives way to cold and paints
The tree leaves in rainbow before
I collect a few for my album

– Inna Dulchevsky

editors note:

Picking past perceptions from polaroid leaves. – mh clay


by on May 27, 2017 :: 0 comments

Tied up the garbage & intended
Or so I said
To toss it in the dumpster but
Once out the door
I kept walking, plastic bag in hand,
Up the alley & past
The pungent metal cans, simply could not
Bring myself to lift
The lid of the dumpster knowing what must
Have been there
Given the lunch special that day &
I kept on walking
Even after the alley snaked up the hill
& was no longer paved
Was no longer an alley by any sensible definition
The path twisted into the trees
Trees that shortly I could no longer
Identify & heard animals
& birds extinct or never evolved & the garbage
At the end of my arm
Was no longer garbage but rather the germ
Of a new world
& I stepped through one impossibly thin
Gelatinous window
After another, my legs growing tired
Or so I thought
In fact they were becoming new legs & ached
From their newness as I
Barely daring to breathe pushed through the final
Viscous portal & released
The throbbing light at the end of my fingers.

editors note:

The unauthorized text of the new Genesis. Creationists, rejoice! – mh clay


by on May 26, 2017 :: 0 comments

after Vincent van Gogh

make it alive, I said,
give them the sun and a parrot
if you think right

at least some gay, yellow shine

wish he was listening to me
while he painted the sunflowers on canvas

life would not have stilled
had there been water in the vase

– Kiriti Sengupta

editors note:

Nothing still about this life. – mh clay


by on May 25, 2017 :: 0 comments

Pratfalls stoic like saints leave me
with doctrines I pooh-pooh as I
saunter directionless. Unlike me
querists are quick learners. My
body leans on you, social setups
chide me for this pose. In its slant
is my smile. I’ve no time to mull:
can there be another flexure?
This sigmoid is for me.

editors note:

…and the whole world smiles with you. – mh clay

Cubby Hole

by on May 24, 2017 :: 0 comments

I crawl through the extremities of a cubby hole
Sheltered through the cracks of a lonely shelter
Repeating myself through the stark crevices
A story to be told over baseless tea.

Watching the Catholics watching
The prim waitresses milling about
An insult overheard, though, blank to offers
Of salvation through works, cussing the wasters.

Buttonholing the professors, slick with complements
The plagiaristic soul skims the laptop
Scans his grievance to the highest bidder,
Probably chuckling at his desk in his office

Ghosts remain in their territory. All I know
Is he didn’t vacate this earth soon enough
An exile from propriety, offering my honour
The orgasmic grail never settling matters.

Enough money to eat and drink
Some satellite watching eats at your soul
A limiting barcode sends you to hell
All your persuasions burning in your brain.

I sit in the cubby hole, darkened, safe
Until what’s over with comes around again
Never loving you, in stead of research
I crawl out again, wiser and better.

– Patricia Walsh

editors note:

Exposed or ensconced, exile is imminent. Might as well stand in the open. – mh clay

Letter to my Therapist

by on May 23, 2017 :: 0 comments

Dear Fiona,
My dear therapist
I am sorry
I am sorry for ghost white lies
I say
You labeled me
PTSD or ptsd or PeeTee Es Dee
And blah blah blah
It doesn’t matter, to me
And I told you the flies-in-my-gut truth
The things I don’t remember
That you somehow coaxed me into reliving
I’m still unsure what all I told you that day
It was most certain a unique kind of hell
One I’m sure you have never endured
And now
I notice
your knuckles curl
when I enter your room
How the seat is two feet farther back
I see you tremble, Fiona
And I never knew scars could cut
But I see you bleed
When we pick my scab
I’m sorry Fiona
But I think it’s too late
And this
my friend
Is just a ghost white lie

editors note:

Shared hell, shared fear. No distance can keep so close. – mh clay


by on May 22, 2017 :: 0 comments

he might just be that man
sinking into the sidewalk
as you walk by he
smiles at you but
continues downward
to that place we call
and he is glad to
be seen in his going
to be recognized in
this moment as
a form of finality
a book closed on
a shelf no one will need
to dust again.

editors note:

He might be we are him and all vanish in time, so… It’s nice to be noticed. (We welcome Mark to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay